


Beautiful Minds Outtakes 3: Hell Hath No Fury...

by Soledad



Series: Beautiful Minds [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: BAMF Tosh, F/M, Ninja Butler Ianto, Outtakes, Season 3 AU ficlets, beautiful minds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:32:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7465278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... as Charles Augustus Magnussen learns the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> These Season 3 AU ficlets aren’t written in chronological order. They sometimes overlap, sometimes tell the same events from different POVs, sometimes even the events themselves are a bit different. Everything is still set in the BM’verse, with all that it entails, but I do use some of the original dialogue from the episodes. Reading my story “Convergences” might help to understand the AU aspects better.
> 
> This particular story is set after “The Empty Hearse”, right before the wedding. However, I’ve messed up the timeline a bit, so that the whole Magnussen part will take place before the wedding. Some lines of dialogue are borrowed – in a slightly modified form – from “His Last Vow”, for obvious reasons.
> 
> Beta read by my good friend, m2d2, whom I owe my sincerest thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine, ‘cause sometimes I’m just too pig-headed to listen. :))

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**PART ONE**

Toshiko Sato learned the hard way that one must never give in to blackmail. Not even if the blackmailer would threaten your loved ones. 

She’s made that mistake once. It nearly destroyed her and those she tried to protect, despite the personal risks she has taken. When Mycroft Homes saved her from prison – not out of the goodness of his heart but because he could put her abilities to good use but still – she swore she’d never make the same mistake again.

For a long time she didn’t need to worry about such things. Her life was a great deal more invisible in Mycroft Holmes’s employ than it used to be while she’d worked for the Ministry of Defence’s science lab. For years upon years, the rest of the world seemed to have forgotten about her and she liked it that way. 

Thanks to Mr Holmes’s interference, her records have been wiped clean. She was given a second chance, a clean slate to begin anew, and she worked very hard in all those years to make amends for the one terrible mistake in the past.

So far, things have worked out just fine. She even met a wonderful, brave, broken man who might accept her past, should he learn about it one day – although she didn’t intend to tell him for a while yet – and whom Mr Holmes wouldn’t see as a security risk. 

She never thought she’d ever find someone to replace Rajesh, but John Watson proved to be a more than worthy successor. She began to believe that she’d left the past behind her completely and would be allowed to lead a life without fear.

And now _this_.

She holds the elegant, cream-coloured card in both hands and stares down at it in quiet despair. It has the picture of two interlinked wedding rings and under those a short notice is written in old-fashioned copperplate font – and hand-written at that, not printed.

_Congratulations. A shame your family can’t be here to share your happiness._

_CAM_

She is shocked. She and John have just set the wedding date two days previously; no-one has been told just yet, not even Sherlock. And no-one is supposed to know that her contact with her family – repatriated to Japan on Mr Holmes’s orders some ten years ago – is still limited.

Well, Sherlock knows, of course. He was the driving force behind her semi-rehabilitation (declaring that allow a brain like hers to rot in prison would be a criminal waste), but he doesn’t know about the concrete plans yet. And even if John couldn’t resist telling him, which _is_ a distinct possibility – or if he figured out on his own, due to the awesome Holmesian deductive powers – why would he send her such a peculiar card?

No; this is definitely an outsider, up to no good, and the whole thing has the sickeningly familiar smell of blackmail about it. But who could possibly know both of her past _and_ her wedding plans? The thought of such knowledge is most alarming.

Perhaps she ought to warn Mr Holmes about it?

No; ever since she and John decided to get married, she hasn’t been Mr Holmes’s favourite person (not that she’d ever have been; she is _useful_ for him, but that is all about it). Toshiko understand his worries, she really does. She knows how crucial John has been for Sherlock’s well-being, and she knows Mr Holmes is worried that losing John would make Sherlock turn back to the drugs.

It _is_ a real danger, especially after all Sherlock went through in the two years of his absence. And in the eyes of Mr Holmes everything and everyone is irrelevant compared with Sherlock’s well-being.

So no, turning to Mr Holmes is not an option.

She could ask his PA for help, the mysterious woman she knew first as Quilla, then as Erin and lately as Anthea (though none of those names are really her own). But turning to Anthea would be the same as turning to Mr Holmes, only on a more roundabout way. She is practically the extension of Mr Holmes and wouldn’t do anything without his knowledge.

Or without his express order.

That leaves Toshiko with exactly one option, and she decides to use it. She takes out her phone, and hits speed dial #2.

“Ianto?” she asks as the phone is answered. “I need your help in a rather… delicate matter.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They meet in a small café just outside Whitehall. It is favoured by young employees of the nearby government offices, so Ianto blends in perfectly in his pin-striped three-piece suit. Knowing the place, Toshiko changed into a skirt suit of her own – her “sexy secretary outfit”, as John jokingly calls it – in order to avoid any unwanted attention.

For all means and purposes, they look like two junior civil servants on a lunch break.

“What do you think?” Toshiko asks, showing Ianto the card.

Ianto studies it thoroughly. Toshiko can almost see the mental spreadsheet unfolding in his mind: ink, stationery, handwriting, wording, signature… more than any normal person would take notice of. All listed meticulously and saved away for further analysis.

But, of course, Ianto is a Holmes. A largely unknown one, sure, who spent the first twenty years of his life in happy ignorance, but he still has a brilliant Holmesian mind. And he’s learned a great deal from his biological father about how to use it since they so unexpectedly found each other.

“Definitely blackmail,” he finally says. “Though unusual, as they make no demands. They’re simply signalling that they know of your past; with an additional threat against your family, just in case you’d be considering being belligerent.”

“But how could they know about my past?” Toshiko wonders. “Mr Holmes said my records were wiped clean…”

“They were,” Ianto reassures her. “But there were a few people who knew about your fate; and unfortunately, people’s minds can’t be as easily wiped as a computer databank. Well… they can, actually, but it isn’t done, unless national security demands it, cos the side effects are unpredictable.”

“But what could the blackmailer possibly want from me?” Toshiko asks.

“Nothing right now, I presume,” Ianto replies. “He just wants you to know that he knows; to keep you on your toes. He wants you prepared and ready for the time when he actually does have any demands.”

“Why threaten my family, though?”

“Cos it’s already worked once,” Ianto answers simply. “It’s all about weaknesses for him. Weaknesses that can be exploited in the future.”

Toshiko stares at him in shock.

“You’ve just said _him_. Does this mean you _know_ who this CAM is?”

Ianto nods. “Of course I do. So do you. So does everybody in the UK and beyond. I don’t think there’s anyone with a functioning telly in this country who hasn’t heard of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Certainly not in London.”

“Oh, God,” Toshiko whispers tonelessly. “The media mogul? The owner of bloody _CAM Global News_?” 

Ianto nods. 

“But what would he want from _me_ , of all people?”

“That is what he _does_ ,” Ianto explains. “He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power. He knows the critical pressure point of every person of note or influence in the entire Western world; probably even beyond. You’ve seen the news about John Garvie, the MP who’s been arrested on charges of corruption?” 

Toshiko nods.

“That was Magnussen’s doing,” Ianto tells her. “Or about the suicide of Lord Smallwood?”

Toshiko nods again.

“That, too, was Magnussen’s doing,” Ianto adds grimly.

“But why would he go after _me_?” Toshiko asks, still bewildered. “I’m of no importance!”

“He’s not after _you_ ,” Ianto answers. “Not really. But what he knows about your past could be useful for him against… somebody else.”

He gives Toshiko a meaningful look and she blanches.

“You mean your…” she stops when Ianto scowls at her warningly. “Cause he saved me from prison? But – but that wasn’t _illegal_ , was it? I mean, he did have the power to do so, didn’t he?”

Ianto nods. “And therein lies the problem. He _did_ have the power, yes; but a great many things he _can_ do exist in a… a grey zone of legality. Cos that’s the only way _how_ he can do some things.”

“And should something like my past become public…” she trails off. 

She never considered that Mr Holmes might have taken personal risks to save her. Whatever his true motivation might have been.

“… it would destroy him,” Ianto finishes for her. “The work he does makes it necessary for him to remain in the shadows. Should he, for whatever reason, get in the spotlight, his usefulness for the higher-ups would end; and they’d toss him to the wolves to save themselves. It’s nothing personal,” he adds dryly, seeing her horrified expression. “He’d do the same in a second. The work they do is far too important. They can’t take individual fates under consideration.”

“But the public wouldn’t understand that,” she says slowly, starting to understand the ramifications.

“No,” Ianto agrees. “And the press would _love_ to have their big scandal about government officials doing illegal – or, at the very least, semi-legal – things in the background. No-one would care for the reasons. No-one would be willing to accept that such things are _necessary_. When it comes to people in power, everyone gets onto their moral high horses. And they want a scapegoat. They want heads to roll. Even if those are the heads of the only people who are keeping them safe.” He smiles thinly. “As Sherlock so truthfully states, most people are idiots.”

Toshiko nods in disillusioned agreement because everything he said is depressingly true.

“Is that why he never acknowledged you? Because you’d be a liability?”

“Of course,” Ianto replies with a wry grin. “They’d jump at the saucy piece of news that he used to have an affair with somebody so deeply beneath his own standing and abandoned her, pregnant and penniless, when his rich father threw a tantrum. No-one would care that he didn’t even _know_ Mam was pregnant and hadn’t learned about my existence until Tad died. Just as they wouldn’t care _why_ he chose to help somebody who was thrown into prison without a trial.”

“Do you think Magnussen knows about you?” Toshiko asks. “I know you don’t speak about your connection as a rule, but it isn’t exactly a secret. Your entire family knows, and a lot of people who work for them.”

Ianto shrugs. “He might know; but it’s possible that I haven’t registered on his radar just yet. I never held any important position. Archivist of the Torchwood Institute, then one of Mr Holmes’s PAs – and not even the head one at that – isn’t big enough to catch his eye. _Or_ to raise the accusation of nepotism. Even if he does know about our connection, there’s little to no blackmail material, since I’m just a little bureaucrat – and quite happy that way, if I may add.”

“You’re _so_ much more than just that!” Toshiko laughs, knowing that Ianto’s skills reach from high-end hacking through dangerous undercover missions to financial acrobatics if the need arises.

Ianto winks at her conspiratorially.

“True; but I hide in plain sight very well. Not even Sherlock has truly spotted me so far.”

“No!” Toshiko laughs in disbelief. “The entire family knows – except him? How is that even possible?”

Ianto shrugs again. “Well, it’s his own fault that he doesn’t speak with the rest of the family. _Or_ with the family lawyers. _Or_ with the family accountant. It’s the same sort of arrogance as Magnussen’s; or as Moriarty’s used to be. I’ve been right in front of their noses, and they never suspected a thing.”

“But Magnussen,” Tosh says, after they are done laughing. “Can’t Mr Holmes do something against him?”

“Afraid not,” Ianto admits. “Not until he can get his hands on Magnussen’s files. You see, the man has created an entire library of forbidden knowledge. The greatest database of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world. A whole library of secrets and scandals – and none of it is on a computer. He keeps the files underneath his house, in sealed vaults.”

“He keeps hard copies?” the computer geek in Toshiko almost feels insulted.

“Oh, he’s shrewd,” Ianto says. “Think about it: computers can be hacked. A vault can be protected by physical means. And he does have the money to buy the best security that is available.”

“Better than Mr Holmes’s agents?” Toshiko asks doubtfully. Ianto nods.

“Oh, they’ve tried to get in a few times, believe me – but so far they’ve failed. And Mr Holmes needs to know first what Magnussen knows to be able to counteract him. Besides, Magnussen is cautious. He never causes too much damage to anyone really important. He’s far too intelligent for that.”

“What do you mean? Wasn’t Lord Smallwood an important person?”

“No,” Ianto says. “ _Lady_ Smallwood is the important one: a senior government official who was recently chairing an inquiry into press standards – specifically the level of influence Magnussen had over the Western world. To warn her off, Magnussen released the information about Lord Smallwood’s romantic… _interest_ in a then-underage girl in the 1970s. Lord Smallwood committed suicide, but _Lady_ Smallwood still holds a position of prominence in the British security establishment. She didn’t back off, so he chose to hurt her but didn’t dare to go against her directly.”

“But he would go against Mr Holmes?”

“He _might_ ,” Ianto says thoughtfully. “It’s more likely, though, that he’ll use his knowledge to keep my… _boss_ from going against _him_. As Mr Holmes says, he’s a businessman, first and foremost; and occasionally even useful to him. A necessary evil.”

“And you agree with that?” Toshiko can’t quite believe it. Ianto shakes his head.

“No. But right now I don’t think I could do anything about the matter – or that I should. Sometimes one has to make a deal with the devil, for the greater good. I don’t have to _like_ it; but I have to accept it.”

“Still, Mr Holmes must be keeping a close eye on Magnussen,” Toshiko says. “Or else _you_ wouldn’t know so much about him.”

“Well, yes, I’m sure I don’t even know half of it,” Ianto shrugs. “But Lady Smallwood chose to ask Sherlock’s help with getting back those compromising letters of her late husband; and Sherlock being Sherlock, accepted the job, despite his brother empathically telling him to leave Magnussen alone. Or perhaps _because_ Mr Holmes told him to back off,” he added resignedly.

Toshiko laughs. “Sherlock is… how old now? Forty-ish? And his brother still hasn’t learned that telling him _not_ to do something is the best way to make him do it anyway? He’s like a petulant eight-year-old.”

“Oh, I’m sure my… _boss_ knows that,” says Ianto slowly. “Which makes me wonder if he’s forbidden him to pursue the case for exactly that reason. It’s hard to tell how many different levels of mental manipulation are going on in the Holmes family at the same time.”

“You’re one of them,” Tosh raises an elegant eyebrow. “You tell me.”

But Ianto shakes his head emphatically.

“Oh no, I’m not. We… may share some genetic material as Sherlock would put it, should he know about our connection, but I’ve grown up in a simple, loving, down-to-earth Welsh family and I’ll be eternally grateful for that. Look at them: they’re all broken in some way; including Lady Violet and even Aunt Diane, although she’s the one who’s kept most of her… er… humanity.”

“And you aren’t?” Toshiko asks gently. “You’ve lost your parents, your girlfriend, your flatmate… and over eight hundred people you used to work with, in that terrorist bombing. No-one can go through _that_ and come out of it unscarred.”

“True,” Ianto allows. “And I still miss them, every single one of them. But at least I _had_ them all, for a while. Long enough to have fond memories. The Holmeses don’t have friends, and they don’t do love. I pity them for that.”

“Is that why you chose to move in with your father after Canary Wharf?” Toshiko asks quietly. Ianto nods.

“When Wesley was found among the casualties… and later, when I had to have Lisa’s plug pulled, for the first time in my life I was alone. It made me understand how lonely _he_ must have been all his life. Working for him gave me purpose again; and I like to think that having me around made him just a tad less lonely.”

He pauses and his expression softens ever so slightly. “He’s not a bad person, you know. He was taught to be aloof and ruthless at a very young age; that sentiment was a weakness and that caring was not an advantage. He internalised that well. Perhaps too well for his own good. But under all those layers of armour he’s fiercely protective. Just look at the risks he takes to keep Sherlock alive!”

Toshiko nods slowly, thoughtfully. She knows what loneliness is like. She’s been alone all her life, for one reason or another. And she knows what family is and how far one would go to protect one’s family. She’s been there, done that, and paid the price. Is still paying the price, in fact.

“So,” Ianto then says, changing the topic deliberately. “What are you going to do? Call off the wedding?”

For a moment Toshiko hesitates, uncertainty gnawing at her like rats in her stomach. Then she gathers all her courage and raises her chin defiantly.

“No way! I won’t let that blackmailing slime ruin the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time!”

“That’s the spirit,” Ianto grins, looking his true (still fairly young) age for a moment. Then he leans forward conspiratorially. “Do you need any help with the planning?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The wedding, when it finally does take place, is a quiet affair. It’s mostly John’s friends and colleagues that fill the invited list. Toshiko’s family cannot come from Japan, for reasons John still isn’t aware of. One day she’ll have to tell him; and that day probably isn’t very far. Right now, however, she is trying to enjoy her big day… as long as it lasts.

Only her grandfather, now well beyond his ninetieth year, who still lives in London, is present. He and John go on like a house on fire. Mr Nakamura, who worked for Bletchley Park in World War Two, even manages to lure Major Sholto out of his reserve, although John’s former commanding officer really isn’t one for small talk. 

Toshiko has no friends left, so Jenny Smith, one of the family lawyers (and Ianto’s current girlfriend) gets roped in as bridesmaid in the last moment. They’ve considered Molly Hooper first, but since – of course – Sherlock _is_ John’s best man, it would have been too awkward. There’s no need to make anyone uncomfortable.

John’s sister doesn’t come and neither does Mr Holmes make an appearance. But Ianto is there, omnipresent, keeping an eye on everything, and it is his doing that the photographer intending to murder Major Sholto is arrested and taken quietly away, right after Sherlock’s brilliant deduction that has replaced what should have been the best man’s speech.

Aside from that episode, though, Toshiko is happy with the wedding… until Sherlock drops the bombshell about her pregnancy, that is.

“You really didn’t know?” Ianto asks, and she shakes her head.

“No; I thought my birth control was idiot proof. Apparently, I was mistaken.”

“Apparently,” Ianto agrees. “Do you want to keep the baby?”

Toshiko nods with emphasis. “Oh, yes. I’m not eighteen anymore; who knows if I could get pregnant again if I had an abortion now. You know how the time in prison screwed up my cycles. No; if we want a child, we’re having it now, while we still got the chance.”

“Yep, but the question is: _do_ you want a child?” Ianto asks quietly, and Toshiko nods again.

“I do; and more importantly, so does John. You saw the joy on his face… _after_ he got over his first shock. I’d never take that from him. But I’m not doing this for him alone. This baby is part of him; and there’s no part of him that I’d willingly harm.”

“Have you ever wanted children… you know, _before_?” Ianto phrases the question discreetly.

“Rajesh and I were talking about it,” Toshiko replies. “But he got himself killed before we’d have made the final decision. I do love kids; and I hope John and I will be able to build a proper family.”

“Even with Sherlock dragging him off to mortal danger every other day?” Ianto smiles, but she can feel that the question is very serious.

“We’re all acquainted to the Holmes family, one way or another,” she answers. “That alone makes our lives dangerous. But I’d rather live dangerously than vegetate in fear in some dark hole like a trapped rat.”

“You still have Magnussen to consider,” Ianto warns her.

“I know,” she sights. “And I’ll have to deal with him while I still can. Before I get as big as a beached wale.”

Ianto remains silent for a while.

“Do you need help?” he then asks. Toshiko shakes her head.

“No; this is something I better do alone. You’ll have to watch over John, though. I’m sure Sherlock will be dragging him into this game, and he won’t tell me about it, out of misplaced protectiveness.”

“He still doesn’t know what you’re capable of,” Ianto says with a faint smile.

 _He_ does know, of course.

“And he doesn’t need to learn; not yet,” Toshiko replies. “One day, I’ll tell him anything. I don’t want to live a lie. But this is not the time; not while Mr Holmes is at risk because of me. Not before I’ve dealt with the problem. You know I can do it; but only if I can count on you to keep John safe.”

“I would,” Ianto says thoughtfully. “But you must remember that he still works on cases with Sherlock. There’s little to no chance to keep anyone safe around Sherlock. Not even Sherlock himself. But I’ll do my best.”

Toshiko nods her thanks, her mind on the next problem already. “Do you have any data on Magnussen?”

Ianto hands her a memory stick that looks like a lipstick.

“Everything we have is here; but I must warn you, it’s not much. So far, we’ve failed to find anything electronically stored. We’ve hacked every computer he’s come near in the last fifteen years – nothing. Oh, there’s a huge database of everything that’s been posted in the media he controls, but nothing of the actual proof. Nothing of the compromising data he uses for blackmail.”

Toshiko nods her understanding. “The hard copies we’ve spoken about the last time. Easily protected with the right security measures and easily destroyed if needs must be.”

Ianto nods. “Exactly. A brilliant solution, you must admit.”

But Toshiko waves him off impatiently. Admiration isn’t the thing she feels for the blackmailer, no matter how brilliant he might be.

“Where would he keep them?” she asks, because that’s the next logical question, and she’s nothing if not practical-minded.

“Appledore,” Ianto replies promptly.

She gives him a blank look. “Am I supposed to know what the hell _that_ is?”

“Magnussen’s home in Hampstead,” Ianto explains. “A high-tech mansion divided over ten floors, in the middle of some nice, green hills. It sports a bowling alley, a swimming pool and a squash court; and it has a central viewing tower, made of steel and bullet-proof glass, set more than fourteen metres above the lower ground floor level. It’s very imposing, actually – _if_ you’re into that bleak, impersonal, futuristic style.”

Toshiko laughs nervously. “You sound like a real estate agent. I don't think I’m interested, thanks.”

“You wouldn’t be able to buy it anyway, even if it were on sale,” Ianto grins at her. “It cost thirty million pounds when it was completed, and its value has gone up considerable since then, due to its location and its notoriety.”

“I imagine it has,” Toshiko murmurs, “but how does that help me?”

“ _That_ doesn’t,” Ianto admits. “But I haven’t mentioned yet that one third of the property’s twenty-three thousand two hundred and fifty square foot floor space is located partially underground, behind a highly insulated, waterproof concrete structure.”

“I see,” Toshiko says; and she _does_ indeed. “The vaults where he keeps his blackmail material?”

“The most likely place,” Ianto agrees. “If not there, then I’m at a loss where they might be.”

“It’s the best starting point we could have,” Toshiko says. “I’ll analyse your data, of course, and see what else I can find – no offence to Mr Holmes’s people, but I’m better than them.”

“He knows,” Ianto smiles. “That’s why he keeps you around.”

“Gee, thanks,” Toshiko mutters bitterly, but Ianto keeps smiling.

“That’s why _he_ keeps you around,” he repeats. “Now _me_ , I simply like you; and so does Sherlock, in his inept ways.”

“Sherlock likes _John_ ,” she corrects, and Ianto nods.

“True; but you’re now part of John’s life, and by extension, he likes you, too. That vow he made at your wedding; he truly meant it. He considers you both his own, and the Holmeses are fiercely protective of their own.”

“I don’t know if that should reassure or terrify me,” Toshiko murmurs.

“Perhaps a bit of both,” Ianto suggests. “They – _we_ , I guess – can be suffocatingly protective. But at least I’m firmly on your side, don’t forget that.”

“You are?” Toshiko is honestly surprised. Ianto has always been kind to her, but she knows nothing about taking _sides_. 

Ianto nods and smiles at her again. “Of course. I’m the only one of the family with a clue how the majority of humankind lives and thinks; and it’s my job to bring them back to Earth now and again.”

 _That_ thought makes her smile, too. “Even Mr Holmes?”

“Especially him,” Ianto confirms. “He’s so used to looking at the big picture that he keeps forgotten the mundane details: that the pawns he’s playing the game with are actually living, breathing people with lives of their own,” he pauses. “Or do you think he was happy to see you and John grow close?”

“I know he wasn’t; in the unlikely case he’d be capable of _any_ kind of happiness,” Toshiko says bitterly. “He confronted me early on, you know. Needled me about my _intentions_ towards John. I was surprised that he didn’t interfere when we got engaged.”

“He wanted to,” Ianto says, darkly amused. “He was worried about Sherlock’s reaction. You know he constantly worries about him.”

Toshiko nods. Of course she knows. _Everyone_ knows that.

“He didn’t interfere, though…”

“No,” Ianto says with smug satisfaction. “I… persuaded him not to.”

“I’m surprised that _anyone_ could do that,” she says and she means it. Mr Holmes isn’t very susceptible to other people’s arguments, as a rule.

“Not _anyone_ ,” Ianto corrects. “Just _me_.”

Toshiko shakes her head in amazement. “I still can’t imagine how you’ve managed to do so. He’s so… unmovable.”

“Well,” Ianto confesses a little ruefully. “I’m not above a little blackmailing myself. _If_ it serves a good purpose, of course. And I felt that you and John have both deserved a little happiness.”

For a moment Toshiko is absolutely speechless. The thought that Ianto would confront his terrifyingly powerful father for her sake is almost incomprehensible. No-one has done something like that for her, _ever_. Her eyes become misty, and she resists the urge to hug the young man spontaneously. Given the circumstances, _that_ wouldn’t be wise.

“You’re such a good friend, Ianto!” she says instead. He shrugs modestly. 

“I’m trying not to get corrupted by money and power, which isn’t always easy,” he confesses. “Fortunately, Mam and Tad raised me with good Welsh sense, so I don’t get blinded easily. Now; do you intend to pay Appledore a visit? It won’t be easy, you know. The security measures are incredible. I know you’re good with that sort of stuff, but breaking into Appledore could be very dangerous.”

“I don’t intend to break in,” Toshiko replies calmly. “I intend to walk in through the front door, openly.”

“And he’d just let you walk in?” Ianto asks doubtfully.

“He will, if I have something to offer him,” she answers. “Or if he _thinks_ I have something.”

“Oh!” Ianto is quick enough to catch up with her. “You want to pretend you’re about to sell him something he doesn’t know yet about Mr Holmes, right?”

Toshiko nods. “Of course. I do have the reputation of becoming a traitor to keep my loved ones safe, don’t I? Of all people with a connection to Mr Holmes, I’m the most likely to do so, am I not?”

“I for my part don’t believe you’d make the same mistake again,” Ianto replies. “But you’re right. For somebody like Magnussen you’d be the most promising candidate. I think he’s actually _counting_ on it; why else would he have begun blackmailing you in the first place? I think he’d contact you eventually.”

“Which is why I need to make the pre-emptive strike,” Tosh points out. “I need to deal with things on my own terms.”

“In that case you’ll need to make your move fast, if you want to be there before Sherlock,” Ianto says grimly. “The fact that he failed to retrieve the late Lord Smallwood’s compromising letters has only made him wish to corner Magnussen more.”

~TBC~

Yes, I know I’ve promised one-shots. But this was growing too long, so I’m making an exception.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is set at the same time as the first one and is its direct continuation. Obviously.   
> Some lines of dialogue are borrowed from the 3rd season finale “His Last Vow”. Necessarily.

Unbeknownst of the conspiracy taking part on the other side of London, at 221B Baker Street Sherlock is about to make his own invasion plans.

John, as usual, is torn between exasperation and amazement.

“Right,” he says. “I understand that your brother didn’t want you to take Lady Smallwood’s case, which was the very reason for you to _take_ Lady Smallwood’s case… _why_ didn’t he want you to take Lady Smallwood’s case? And, more importantly, how _is_ there still a case? Lord Smallwood is dead, his dirty secret out in the open, and Lady Smallwood is still in the office, so…”

“John,” Sherlock interrupts sternly. “You’re babbling.”

John pulls a face. “Geez, thanks so much, Sherlock!” he clears his throat and returns to the original topic. “So, Magnussen? Why are you still after him?”

“Because he’s like a shark,” Sherlock replies darkly. “It is the only way to describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, John?” Stood up close to the glass? Those floating, flat faces, those dead eyes… That’s what he is. I’ve dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“Considering your, er, dysfunctional relationship with the press, I’m not really surprised,” John comments, grinning.

“Oh, he’s so much more than just another media mogul,” Sherlock sits down at the coffee table and opens his laptop while John is watching him with a frown. “I’m not exaggerating when I say that he’s the Napoleon of blackmail.”

John gives him a doubtful look. “Napoleon, right. When did Napoleon visit an adversary just to urinate in their fireplace?”

Sherlock scowls at the poor attempt of a joke and pulls up the image of a futuristic house, together with the blueprint of the building.

“That was just a manifestation of his power,” he says unhappily. “Oh, he does have power, don’t make any mistake: the power of forbidden knowledge. And all of that is kept here,” he turns the laptop to show the screen to John. “In Appledore.”

“You mean this is his house?” John tries to translate Sherlock’s dramatics into everyday English.

Sherlock, clearly disappointed by his failure to impress, looks over his shoulder at John scathingly.

“It’s not just a house, John! It’s the greatest repository of potentially dangerous information, the Alexandrian Library of blackmail material – and none of it is digitally stored.”

“It isn’t?” John echoes, not entirely sure if he’s supposed to be surprised or not. “Is that good of us or bad?”

“It’s very, very inconvenient; but again, he is smart,” Sherlock replies in a tone that suggests that John _isn’t_. “He knows I can hack into any computer I want; and so can Mycroft’s people. “But if he keeps hard copies in vaults underneath that house,” he points at the rotating blueprint on the screen, “we’ll have to get through his many layers of security to get what we want. And _that_ won’t be easy, not even for me.”

“Why would you want to get in anyway?” John asks, baffled.

“Because as long as those vaults are there, full of scandals and secrets, the personal freedom of anyone you’ve ever met is a fantasy,” Sherlock explains.

“So that’s why Mycroft tries to protect him!” John is finally getting the picture. “I wonder what he knows about your brother.”

“Probably more than Mycroft himself,” Sherlock shrugs. “But that’s not my concern at the moment. Lady Smallwood still wants those compromising letters of her late husband retrieved, so that they can be destroyed, and we’re going to get them.”

All that sounds plausible, but John has known Sherlock long enough to know when he’s lying; or not telling the whole truth anyway.

“That’s not the true reason why you want to get there, though,” he says.

It’s not a question but Sherlock nods anyway.

“No; or rather not the only reason. The other one has something to do with my idiot brother. He can’t make his move against Magnussen, for several very good reasons, some of which not even I know. I’ll have to do it for him.”

“I thought you no longer accepted cases from Mycroft,” John says, and Sherlock nods again.

“I don’t. He doesn’t know of this. He’d try to stop me if he knew… don’t worry, I’ve removed his bugs less than an hour ago and his lackeys couldn’t have replaced them yet. If we move quickly enough, we’ll be done before he realises what we’re up to.”

John shakes his head in exasperation. “I thought you hated him.”

“I do,” Sherlock replies easily. “But he’s still the only idiot brother I have. Besides, if anything happened to him or to his stupid position, it would upset Mummy terribly.”

“And we wouldn’t want to upset your mother, of course,” John, who still has to meet Lady Holmes, says lightly.

Sherlock gives him a sharp glance. “Believe me, John, that’s the _last_ thing we’d want.”

“But why would the loss of Mycroft’s position upset her?” the few conversations with Sherlock’s aunt, Lady Diane, have familiarised John a bit with the inner dynamics of the Holmes clan but not enough to understand the finer nuances. “I thought _you_ were her favourite son.”

“I am; but Mycroft is her _heir_ ,” Sherlock explains with an expression of vague disgust on his face. “He inherited the title and the estate in Sussex – Mummy might live and reign there, but ownership goes down the male line. Ridiculous 19th century customs,” he adds dismissively.

“Wait, wait!” John interrupts. “What title?”

Sherlock gives him a surprised look. “Aunt Diane hasn’t told you? Mycroft is a baron; or, to be more accurate, the Viscount of Sherringford. Mummy is an only child, so, due to the lack of a male heir in her generation, the title and the estate went to Mycroft as the oldest grandson after Grandfather’s death. Mummy might not particularly like him – he is too much like our father in her opinion – but she’d be very upset if something happened that would cast a bad light upon the name _Sherringford_. She’s very particular about her own ancestry.”

“If your mother didn’t like your father, why did she marry him in the first place?” John decides to deal with the shocking knowledge that Mycroft is a bloody _baron_ at a much later time.

Sherlock shrugs. “She might have been the daughter of a peer of the realm, but Father’s family was _rich_ ; and not just one of those newly risen industrials, either. The Holmeses have been country squires, civil servants and scientists – sometimes at the same time – since the age of Queen Victoria. Father was an able scientist, with a shrewd sense for the best possible investments. The Torchwood Institute has existed since the 19th century; that and the Holmes lands around London were the foundation of the family wealth. The marriage saved the Sherringford estate from being turned into one of those ridiculous safari parks and Mummy from becoming a penniless noble with nothing but a title, but she always let Father feel that he was beneath her.”

“Charming,” John says with a grimace. “So you’re about to make a dangerous enemy of Magnussen, to help Mycroft keep his position, so that your mother can keep looking down at him as a person because he’s like your father, but she’d still accept him because of the title he’s inherited from _her_ family.”

Unlike other people, Sherlock has no difficulty following the logic of John’s deductions, no matter how meandering it is.

“Basically… yes,” he answers simply.

“My sincerest condolences,” John says dryly. “With family like yours, who needs enemies?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock replies in all seriousness. “Still, there are certain family obligations not even I can avoid. Which is why we’re going to break into Appledore.”

“Sorry, _what_?” John can’t quite believe his ears.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“We’re going to break into Magnussen’s house; do try to keep up, John! We’ll slip in, search the vaults under the house, take what we need… and slip out again.”

“Just like that, eh?” John says doubtfully. ”Easy-peasy.”

“Of course not, don’t be an idiot!” Sherlock snaps. “There will be fourteen levels of security between the front gate and the vaults, two of which aren’t even legal in this country.”

“And you intend to slip through those security checkpoints… how exactly?” John asks.

Sherlock grins like a shark. “I have my methods. You’ll see. Now come and help me choose a proper engagement ring. As a married man you’ve got more experience with such things.”

“What do you need an engagement ring for?” John is completely dumbfounded now.

Sherlock gives him his patented long-suffering look that says, without actual words: _Why must I be surrounded by idiots all the time?_

“Why, to get engaged, obviously,” he replies.

Johns blinks in understandable confusion at this unexpected piece of news. Several times. “Get engaged to _who_?” he finally asks.

“ _Whom_ ,” Sherlock corrects absent-mindedly, and John has the sheer irresistible urge to punch him. “To Magnussen’s PA, of course. Where, do you think, do I have the information about his security system from?”

“Of course,” John echoes flatly.

He knows Sherlock can be devastatingly charming if he puts his mind to it. The man is an excellent actor; few people can see through his charming act, and even if they do, they find it hard to resist nonetheless. And Sherlock, manipulative bastard that he is, knows this and exploits it mercilessly to get what he wants.

Sometimes John wonders if the two Holmes brothers are really so different, deep down.

“Let me set this straight,” he says. “You went all Prince Charming on Magnussen’s PA, made her fall in love with you, just to get from her the data you need to break into Appledore, and now you want to get engaged to her… why exactly?”

“To get me into the house in the first place,” Sherlock replies impatiently. “Really, John, even _you_ should have figured out that much. We can’t break into the Vaults, unless somebody summons us inside the house first.”

“Ta,” John says laconically.

The casual insult towards his intelligence is so familiar by now that he no longer actually _feels_ insulted. That’s what Sherlock _does_. He realises with a jolt that he _missed_ being insulted by this brilliant madman on a daily basis in the long, triste years while Sherlock was gone.

It’s almost like old times again. _Almost_.

“Well,” Sherlock says briskly. “Now that you’ve managed to catch up with the plan, let’s go to the jeweller’s and purchase that ring. I intend to propose to my girlfriend tonight.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Several hours alter they’re sitting in a rental car –which Sherlock has rented under a false name to keep Mycroft off their scent – driving towards Hampstead. The surrounding landscape is beautiful: all rolling green hills, barely a sign of human life around them.

_The prerogative of the obscenely rich to live undisturbed by the common crowd_ , John thinks bitterly, knowing that Magnussen has acquired his riches by destroying other people’s lives.

According to what Sherlock has already told him, Magnussen is a parasite; a malevolent and extremely harmful one. Unfortunately, just like their floral or animal counterparts in nature, human parasites tend to be highly successful. Which makes John think about the necessity of pest control.

Sherlock turns the car into a private lane, which is apparently called Church Row, and less than five minutes later they reach the ornate electronic gates that cut off their access to a wide drive, which curves across the centre of a small lake. At the end of the drive, practically gleaming in the deepening dusk, stands a large, beautiful, futuristic-looking house with tall windows and oddly curved walls.

John shakes his head in tolerant amazement.

“This is either the settings of the newest X-men film, or Appledore Tower,” he says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It _is_ Appledore. And you’re being ridiculous.”

But John is still staring at the house in awe. “It actually does have a tower!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “ _And_ a bowling alley _and_ a swimming pool _and_ a squash court, not to mention a landing pad for the private helicopter of _CAM News_ , yes. It’s all very interesting, I’m sure, but _can_ we go in before the security guards spot us dawdling in front of the gate?”

“Don’t let me hold you back,” John replies sarcastically.

As usual, sarcasm doesn’t work with Sherlock. He gets out of the car and approaches the electronic gate… or, to be more precise, the security card reader beside it. He fishes a security card out of the breast pocket of his jacket and swipes it through the reader.

For a moment, nothing happens, and John already imagines the howling of the alarm klaxons inside the house. But after that moment the gate wings swing inward noiselessly. Sherlock jumps back into the car, drives through and pockets the security card again. 

John is baffled… to put it mildly.

“You have a card that grants you access to Magnusson’s house?”

“Of course I don’t,” Sherlock snorts. “But Janine does.”

“And Janine is…” John trails off expectantly.

“Magnussen’s PA, obviously,” Sherlock progresses along the drive.

“The one you’re going to propose to,” John clarifies.

“Mhm,” Sherlock actually deigns the rhetoric question with an answer. “Delightful woman. She lives in the house, too.”

“Don’t you think she might take offence that you’ve stolen her security card?” John asks.

“I didn’t _steal_ it,” Sherlock answers in a bored tone. “Just switched it with a fairly good copy. _She_ wouldn’t get in trouble if her card turned up an access error.”

“You _faked_ a security card to Magnussen’s house?” John is beginning to ask himself what other illegal practices Sherlock has picked up during his two-year-absence. Breaking into crime scenes is one thing, but falsifying documents…

“Not me, obviously,” Sherlock replies. “You need an expert for faking a _functioning_ copy. Fortunately, there are experts for such jobs in my homeless network. You do remember Billy Wiggins, I assume?”

John does and it isn’t a pleasant memory. Billy Wiggins is one of the least appealing members of Sherlock’s homeless network: a junkie who likes to cook up his own special brand of drugs (the sort that would kill most other people) and a thief but, apparently, occasionally useful. Even if his usefulness might be hard to justify, should either Lestrade or Mycroft come behind their current actions.

Sherlock clearly considers the topic closed because he drives the car to the parking lot. There are two other cars parked already: a sleek black one bearing the licence plate 1 CAM, and a regular-looking Audi that might be another rental.

“It seems he has a visitor,” John comments.

“All the better,” Sherlock says. “We can move more freely if he’s distracted. Now, let’s make contact, shall we?”

He steps to the other security reader, beside the main entrance, and grins into the not-too-carefully-hidden camera. “Hi Janine. It’s me.”

The quiet voice of a woman answers through the intercom. “Sherlock, you complete loon! What are you doing here?”

“Visiting you,” Sherlock replies as if it had been the most natural thing of the world. “Go on, let me in.”

“I can’t!” the voice of the woman protests. “You know I can’t. Don’t be silly.”

“Don’t make me do it out here,” Sherlock says softly, in his best fake emotional tone. He pauses and turns his head, as if checking whether someone is listening to them or not. “Not in front of everyone.”

“Do _what_ in front of everyone?” the female voice asks in exasperation.

Sherlock lowers his eyes and fakes a mournful sigh, then takes out a small dark red box and clicks it open before holding it up to the camera to show the large diamond engagement ring inside it. The woman on the other end of the intercom channel can be heard gasping in surprise… and then laughing quietly in delight.

Then there’s a low, buzzing noise, the card reader screen beside the front door turns from red to blue and the door opens, allowing them into an opulent-looking hall, the walls of which are part pale grey brick and part plastered in white. The floor, too, is a pale colour, and glass panels line the staircases.

Sherlock clicks the box closed and turns to John. “You see? As long as there’s people, there’s always a weak spot.”

“What now?” John asks, eyeing the nearly colourless environment with growing unease. The whole thing has an unreal air about it, like a glass sarcophagus. All that’s missing is Snow White and the poisoned apple.

“We need to get the keys to the Vaults,” Sherlock answers. “Or rather the key _cards_ , I presume. Let’s go to Magnussen’s office.”

“I thought he had a visitor,” John frowns. “Why would he be in his office?”

“He isn’t; that’s what I’m counting on,” Sherlock explains with forced patience. “Janine is filing away the daily work there in the evenings. But we can gain access to Magnussen’s safe from there, and _that_ is where I suppose the key cards would be.”

“Unless he has them on his person all the time,” John says, because that is what he would do.

Of course, he’s not the world’s most notorious blackmailer, so what he would do probably doesn’t count.

Sherlock shrugs. “In that case we’ll have to join his little tête-à-tête with his visitor in the master bedroom. Now, listen carefully, John, because you’ll have to help me with this. While I distract Janine…”

“… by _proposing_ to her?”

“Yes, of course, how else? While I distract her, you’ll have to test if the door to the safe room is closed. If it isn’t we’ve won.”

“And if it is?”

“Then we’ll have to look for the key for _that_ door, too. Which would be tedious. I don’t intend to spend here more time than we absolutely have to.”

“What about the safe itself?” John asks. “Won’t it have a combination lock? Where would you get the code from?”

“From Janine, of course,” Sherlock replies with a shrug. “She works with some of the sensitive material stored in that safe; she must have access.”

“Yeah, but why would she tell you the combination?” Join points out. “That would cost her job… and possibly more than just her job. She can’t be a complete moron if Magnussen chose to employ her.”

“Of course not; but I won’t need her to tell me the combination, which is changed on the daily basis anyway,” Sherlock says confidently. “People always hide such things in the most obvious places. I’ll find it within twenty seconds, tops.”

“ _If_ she lets you search for it,” John reminds him.

Sherlock produces one of those hideously false smiles of his, the falseness of which, strangely enough, only a handful of people can see. John is one of those people, but he chooses not to comment on it right now.

“Oh, I can be very persuasive,” Sherlock says. “Come on!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They walk up a light brown wooden spiral staircase, lined with glass panels, till they reach a semi-translucent glass wall with a glass door in it. The door slides to the side as they approach, and they enter a spacious office that is dominated by a large desk and an avant-garde arrangement of shelves on the wall, on which are some slender, strange-looking ornaments with no apparent function.

Another semi-translucent glass door – presumably that of the safe room – is beside the shelf. It seems to be closed, but it may be an automated one, too. John will have to get closer to test it. Who _can’t_ be seen, though, is Sherlock’s newly acquired fiancée.

“So where did she go?” John wonders, and Sherlock pretends to be insulted, though it isn’t very convincing.

“It’s a bit rude,” he sniffs. “I just proposed to her.”

“And such a romantic gesture it was,” John comments dryly. He walks across the room towards the window and stops abruptly as he sees the pretty brunette lying on the floor. “Sherlock...” 

Sherlock hurries over to him and looks down at his girlfriend with clinical interest. “Did she faint? Do they really do that?”

“Not without help from outside in these days, no,” John lowers himself to his knees and leans closer to her face; then he grimaces when the familiar smell hits his nostrils. “Chloroform. She’s been knocked out. But she’s still breathing regularly, so it must have been mildly dosed. She’ll be all right, once she’s slept out the effects.”

Sherlock is only listening to him with half an ear. He prowls around the rest of the office like some big cat, looking for clues. When he approaches the door of the safe room, the glass panel automatically slides to the side, revealing a suited man lying face down on the floor.

“Another one in here,” he calls out to John, who rises from his kneeling position to join him. “Security.”

“Does he need help?” John asks.

Sherlock squats down at the man’s side to examine him. The man is heavily built and looks like the stereotypical security guard: beefy, square-jawed, with short-cropped hair and – presumably – a hang to violence. Behind his left ear, which has an earpiece in it, is a small tattoo of the number 14 and two small, round burn marks.

“Ex-con,” Sherlock decides. “Neutralised by a taser, most likely.”

John bends to examine the twin burn marks under the man’s ear. “And one with a rather high voltage, too. He’s gonna feel like shit for a while when he wakes up.”

Sherlock shrugs, lifting the man’s right hand and examining another tattoo between his thumb and index finger. The tattoo is five small dots, four of them in a square shape and the fifth in the middle of the square.

“White supremacist, by the tattoo, so who cares?” Sherlock drops the hand carelessly. “Let’s check the safe.”

John’s eyebrows climb high enough to touch the roots of his hair. “You’ve found the combination already?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock’s tone is bored. “It was written on a stick-it note, on the underside of Janine’s keyboard. I told you: people choose the most idiotic places to hide their passwords and such stuff.”

He’s already moving towards the safe, stepping over the unconscious man carelessly. The doctor in John, however, is still occupied with the two patients. He takes his phone from his pocket and stares at it uncertainly.

“We should call the police,” he says. “Or, at least, an ambulance.”

Sherlock gives him a withering look. “During our own burglary?! You’re really not a natural at this, are you?”

John sighs and switches his phone off again. He vaguely considers handcuffing the security guard – he never goes anywhere with Sherlock without those plastic restrains in these days – but in the end he decides against it. Unlike Sherlock, he isn’t wearing rubber gloves and leaving his fingerprints behind would be unwise.

Sherlock, in the meantime, has already opened the safe and is rifling through its contents with a speed at which it would be impossible for anyone else to even read the labels. Finally, he picks out a file that has a photograph of Lady Smallwood paper-clipped to the inside and smiles a little. Next to her photograph there is the picture of a man of roughly her age, but it’s striked through with a big X in black ink.

John recognises Lord Smallwood. It’s the same picture that has been shown in the news when the big scandal was launched. The scandal that made the lord take his own life.

Under the same paperclip is the photo of a beautiful girl who looks to be in her late teens. She has ornately coiffed hair and is wearing a strappy white top. She’s looking directly into the camera, clearly posing for the photograph – or for the photographer? In the folder, there are about a dozen or so hand-written letters, the ink a bit faded and smudged with age. Sherlock quickly scans the letters and counts the sheets of paper – and looks supremely smug and content.

“Excellent,” he says. “Everything is accounted for. Lady Smallwood will be so pleased.”

“Can we go now?” John asks, because the entire situation makes him nervous. More nervous than he’s ever felt since Sherlock’s return. Sherlock glares at him with his patented _are-you-really-such-an-idiot?_ glare.

“Of course not,” he replies. “We need to search the Vaults first.”

“What for?” John literally feels his blood pressure rising. “You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? This is not the right time to give in to your curiosity.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and that tells John more than a thousand words. Sherlock never stonewalls like this, unless…

“It’s Mycroft, isn’t it?” John asks quietly. “You want to find what Magnussen has on him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, John,” Sherlock replies airily. “I just want to see the Vaults. They are infamous, but no outsider ever got to see them… until now. I’ll be the first – and with Magnussen in the house, too!”

John rolls his eyes. “Is this some weird secret agent competition? ‘Cause if it is, then the other team is already ahead of us.”

“What other team?” Sherlock frowns, his over-active mind already preoccupied with the possible ways to get into the Vaults.

“The ones who knocked out Janine and the trained gorilla in here,” John reminds him. “For a supposedly oh-so-secure house there is quite a bit of traffic here.”

Sherlock blinks and John can almost see the little cogwheels whirling in his head.

“Right,” he then says. “In the Vaults, now. If we’re quick, we can put the blame on the competition.”

And with that, he tucks the Smallwood file inside his jacket and sweeps downstairs again. John shakes his head in exasperation but follows him nonetheless.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
From the spacious hall, they walk downstairs, passing a kitchen which is all pale brown tiling and stainless steel. The light brown wooden spiral staircase, again, is lined with glass panels. Further down, it becomes narrower and is now made of some light grey metal; they have to tread carefully, so that their footsteps won’t make any echoes. 

The stairs lead into a large library, the shelves of which are full of books – mostly fairly new ones – but there are also quite a few files and ledgers. At the rear of the library there’s another semi-translucent glass wall, with a sliding door in the middle. Two vaguely human-shaped shadows can be glimpsed through the glass.

Considering its location, it has to be Magnussen’s private study. And yet there are no armed security guards anywhere. Instead, there is a very faint trace of… _something_ in the air. Something other than just books and dust and old leather.

“Perfume,” Sherlock murmurs. He closes his eyes, sniffs deeply and holds his hands out to the sides. “Not Janine’s though. Not Prado, either. Or Dior.” 

Keeping his eyes closed, he waves his hand around beside his head as if to force other suggestions from his mind. John waits with forced patience. It isn’t the first time that he sees Sherlock search his Mind Palace for information and knows that breaking his concentration would only cost more time.

Sherlock sniffs twice more, the final one a deep long sniff, and points upwards triumphantly, as if reading the correct brand name on a whiteboard. “ _Jasmine Dreams_ ,” he says quietly; then he turns around, grimacing. “Why do I know it?”

“Toshiko wears it,” a youthful voice with a lilting Welsh accent answers softly, and Ianto Jones walks out from behind the free-standing bookshelf on the right.

Both Sherlock and John are mildly shocked – although, perhaps, for different reasons. Naturally, Sherlock is the first to find his voice again.

“What are you doing here, Jeeves?” he hisses angrily.

“Presumably looking for the same thing as you are,” Ianto shrugs, completely unfazed. “I’m sorry to inform you that we’ve both failed.”

It’s not often that John sees Sherlock totally clueless. This is one of those rare times, but he’s not sure he likes the possible reason for it.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock demands.

“There are no vaults beneath this building,” Ianto tells him bluntly. “I’ve searched the underground levels with _this_ ,” he briefly lifts a small, hand-held gizmo that looks a lot like a Star Trek issue tricorder. “Torchwood used such scanners to discover hidden underground or underwater rooms. Every room below the surface here has a completely innocent purpose – and there’s _nothing_ beneath them.”

“Are you sure?” John asks, because Sherlock is momentarily stunned speechless. Ianto nods.

“Oh, I’m sure there are a few actual documents scattered here or there; like the one Mr Holmes has put under his jacket,” he says. “But the Appledore Vaults seem to be of completely, er, virtual nature,” he glances at Sherlock. “You know about Mind Palaces, don’t you? How to store information so you never forget it – by picturing it? The Appledore Vaults are Mr Magnussen’s Mind Palace. Whenever he needs a piece of all that stored information, he just sits down in his study, closes his eyes… and finds it. It’s all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is owning, as he’s been reported to have said. Repeatedly,” he gives a still stunned Sherlock a wry look. “It is something your brother likes to emphasize occasionally, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes are unnaturally wide as he slowly realises the full impact of the truth; he bares his teeth in utter fury for a moment.

“Does Mycroft know?” he then asks.

Ianto’s answer is careful and more than a little vague. “He’s been… suspecting it, yes, but we didn’t have any proof… until now.”

John still doesn’t quite understand it. “But if Magnussen just _knows_ it, then he doesn’t have any proof, either!”

The looks Ianto shoot him is definitely pitying. “Haven’t your experiences with the press taught you anything, Dr Watson? Mr Magnussen is in _news_. He doesn’t have to _prove_ anything. He just has to _print_ it.”

John knows how very true that is – it was the press that Moriarty used to destroy Sherlock’s reputation and to drive him to suicide… and he nearly succeeded. A look at the clearly beaten Sherlock, who lowers his head with that shocked look still on his face tells him that there won’t be any help from their resident genius; not yet, anyway.

So he turns to Ianto instead. “What do we do now?”

“Nothing,” Ianto replies, his face carefully blank. “There’s nothing for _you_ to be done.”

The emphasis isn’t lost on John, but before he could ask for clarification, they can hear Magnussen’s voice from the room at the other end of the library, sounding very anxious and almost tearful.

“What-what-what would your husband think, eh? He... your lovely husband, upright, honourable... so English. What-what would he say to you now?”

“That is of no importance now,” a shockingly familiar voice replies, and every single drop of blood leaves John’s face in that very instant. He moves toward the glass door on autopilot, but Ianto grabs his good arm.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, Dr Watson.”

John yanks himself free with a force that sends Ianto staggering against the nearest bookshelf.

“Well, ain’t we lucky, then that you are _not_ me?” he replies, marching towards Magnussen’s study with deadly determination, Sherlock hot on his heels.

The door slides to the side obediently, and they can see Magnussen on his knees with his hands behind his head and cowering. The calm arrogance on his face belies the submissive gesture, though.

Standing in front of him, dressed in a neat, charcoal-grey skirt suit, complete with high heels and a silk blouse, is Toshiko. She holds a futuristic-looking weapon, some sort of pistol, a bit clumsily built but obviously deadly, pointing at Magnussen. He cowers, whimpering and momentarily lapsing into his native Danish.

“Nej, nej!” And he continues tearfully, tremulously, “You’re-you’re doing this to protect him from the truth ... but is this protection he would want?”

John is fairly sure that the man is merely acting to stall his time but damn him, he’s a very good actor. John would buy his act if he didn’t know what he does. Toshiko, however, doesn’t seem to be buying it.

“My husband doesn’t need to be protected from the truth,” she replies coldly. “I always intended to tell him; I just hoped the circumstances would be different. This isn’t about him and me, though. Whatever we might have had will be over as soon as I’ve pulled the trigger.”

“Then don’t,” Magnussen says, much calmer now, in the confident belief that he’s found her pressure point.

“I don’t have a choice,” Toshiko’s voice is full of regret. “I’ve been living on borrowed time all these years; now it seems that my time has run out,” she calls over her shoulder, without actually taking her eyes off Magnussen. “Ianto, do we have clarification?”

“Afraid so,” Ianto replies. “Aside from a few actual documents, Appledore’s Vaults seem only to exist in Mr Magnussen’s mind; nowhere else, just there.”

Toshiko nods, as if she hadn’t expected anything else.

“Then I really don’t have any other choice,” she says with infinite sadness. “I cannot allow this man to ruin more lives as he’s ruined Lady Smallwood’s; or mine. And, most importantly, I cannot allow him to ruin the man who saved me all these years ago. _Bon voyage_ , Mr Magnussen!”

And before they could do anything, she pulls the trigger. There’s no sound reminding a gunshot; not even the characteristic noise of a silencer- Instead, it’s a high-pitched whining, as if a huge electronic charge were building up. And Magnussen starts jerking uncontrollably, as if in horrible pain, blood trickling from his nose and ears. 

Less than ten seconds later he suddenly goes still. The whining stops. Toshiko deactivates the weapon and throws it at Magnussen’s lifeless body.

Only then does she turn around. Her nose is bleeding, too, and there are burn marks on her fingers. She was too close to the charge of… whatever that weapon is.

"I’m sorry, John,” she says quietly, her beautiful eyes full of tears. “This is not how I planned to tell you the truth.”

“You haven’t actually told me anything,” John has a hard time to overcome his shock. He’s always known, in theory, that Toshiko worked for Mycroft in some nebulous capacity; this is the first time he’s beginning to ask himself what exactly that capacity is.

“No, I haven’t,” she agrees. “And now I won’t have the time. Ianto will have to do it for me; or Sherlock. You must go now… all three of you. The security systems will have alerted the police by now that some sort of shot was fired in the house. They’ll be here in no time.”

“What about you?” John asks. 

"I must stay here and accept responsibility for the life I’ve taken,” she replies simply. “Even if it was the life of a spineless worm. I may have been many things in the past, but one I never was: a murderer. Until now. In a way, Magnussen _has_ managed to destroy my life completely.” She turns to Sherlock. “Tell your brother that he’s safe now; and that I’m grateful for what he did for me. Now we are even.”

Sherlock nods, obviously knowing what she’s talking about, even if John isn’t. Nor is he going to accept the loss of his wife just like that.

“Come with us!” he begs. “We can make the weapon vanish; this could be one of those murder cases that never get solved.”

But she shakes her head. “No; the only weapon I could smuggle through Appledore’s security system is the only one that would, without doubt, identify _me_ as the murderer.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have the time to explain. You must go _now_ , all of you, or I’ll have murdered somebody for nothing.”

“Will I ever see you again?” John can almost physically feel his heart breaking, can hardly speak.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “It’s unlikely, though. In this case won’t be a trial, none of the facts will ever become public. I’ll probably vanish in some secret, high-security government prison and never see the light of the day again. That’s how those things work.”

“But what about our baby?” John asks in despair.

“I don’t know,” she says again. “I _hope_ they’ll allow you to have her, assuming I can carry her to term, but there are no guarantees. I’m sorry, John. I’m so terribly sorry. I love you so much, and I hoped we could make this work, I really did. Obviously, it wasn’t meant to be.”

“It’s not fair!” John protests, horrified by the tears rolling down his own face. She steps closer and kisses him, and he can taste her blood on his lips.

“No,” she agrees,” it is not. But life rarely is. Please, go with Sherlock and Ianto now. Leave your rental car for me; I’ll have to explain how I got here. Ianto, what about the security cameras?”

“I’ve planted the virus already,” Ianto replies. “We’re ready to go.”

“Then do so,” Toshiko says. “And tell John everything he needs or wants to know, as soon as you’re safe.”

“I will,” Ianto promises; then he turns to John. “Dr Watson, we have to go.”

“Come on, John,” Sherlock urges him, too. “You can’t help her; nobody can at this point, not even Mycroft. But if you stay behind now, everything will be lost.”

John wants to scream, to fight, to tell them that for him everything already is lost… but he doesn’t. Instead, he follows Sherlock and Ianto docilely, because that is what Toshiko _wants_ , what she’s sacrificed everything for. To keep him safe.

He climbs into Ianto’s Audi obediently, and while the young Welshman drives his car beyond all safety limits yet with a steady hand away from Appledore, he numbly wonders why has his life to fall to pieces completely every couple of years. What has he done to deserve this?

In the distance, the police sirens are howling, but they are already far enough from Appledore to be overlooked. Ianto has manipulated the security cameras, so no-one will ever suspect that they were there. 

The only one the police will find next to Magnussen’s body is Toshiko, with a weapon that supposedly won’t lead to anyone else. They’ll have to arrest her, and then John will never see her again.

Suddenly the idea of escaping doesn’t seem so appealing anymore.


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is set at the same time as the first ones and is its direct continuation. Obviously.  
> Toshiko’s last message is a modified version of that in the Torchwood Second Season finale, “Exit Wounds”

Ianto drives them to Baker Street, assuming (and rightly so) that John wouldn’t be able to stay in his home alone, knowing that Toshiko will spend the night in prison. John and Sherlock go up to the living room at once. Ianto parks the car and contacts Mycroft to inform him about the events at Appledore Tower in the necessary details. 

Then he rejoins the other two in the living room, which looks every bit as it’s always looked, regardless of John’s presence or absence. It was always Sherlock whose taste and personality marked their environment. John’s sparse belongings usually went under in Sherlock’s mess. Back when they lived here together, that fact often annoyed John. Now it is a blessing. It is like coming home.

“Mr Holmes is not happy,”” Ianto tells them. “With any of us. The least with me, I reckon, for going behind his back. But he won’t make an appearance tonight; he has to organize the damage control at Appledore, and it will likely take the whole night.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” John mutters; then he glares at them. “Well? Which one of you’s gonna tell me why my wife saw no other way out than to murder that jackal and why she’ll be spending the rest of her life in some nameless government prison?”

Ianto looks at Sherlock. “You were there from the beginning.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Actually, I wasn’t. I entered the scene just a few years before you. You’ve probably gained a better picture of the early years from the Archives.”

“All right,” Ianto says. “Here are the facts. Toshiko’s scientific genius was discovered at a tender age; she started university with sixteen and did exceedingly well, despite being years younger than the average student. This was brought to the attention of Mr Holmes, who selected her for his scientific think tank while she was only twenty and still at university. She worked with that group for the next ten years. After graduating, she got employed by the _Lodmoor Research Facility_ , a division of the Ministry of Defence, where she got her second degree, working on sonic technology.”

“Unfortunately for her, a renegade member of the same think tank joined an eco-terrorist group,” Sherlock picks up the story when Ianto pauses to order his thoughts. “This group arranged the kidnapping of Mrs Sato to blackmail Toshiko into building them the sonic weapon the lab was experimentally working on. She managed to build it, even though the blueprints that she’d stolen from the lab were faulty.”

“It was the same weapon she used today on Mr Magnussen,” Ianto adds.

“She couldn’t know that Ms Blaine and her department within MI5 already had a close eye on the group,” Sherlock continues. “All they needed was to catch them red-handed.”

“Which they did, in the very moment when Toshiko delivered the weapon,” Ianto supplies grimly. “They all ended up in prison, without a trial, without the chance to defend themselves – as if there could have been any acceptable defence for what they planned to do. You saw the weapon at work; it’s still an experimental prototype, but it can do a lot of damage, almost without getting noticed. The ideal thing for terrorists.”

“And Toshiko went to prison for high treason, too, right?” John asks because there really isn’t any other way things could have done. She cooperated with _terrorists_ , for God’s sake! She built them the ultimate weapon! Even if John understands – and he does, really – that she only did this to save her mother, there’s no way that she would have spared.

Ianto nods. “Yes. Her rights as a citizen were withdrawn, as is the standard procedure in such cases, without legal representation _or_ the right of appeal. She’d have been held there indefinitely, with no contact to anyone outside the facility, if not for Mr Holmes.”

John shakes his head in bewilderment. “Is there _anything_ that man can’t do?”

“I mean the _younger_ Mr Holmes,” Ianto corrects, and John stares at Sherlock, baffled.

“ _You_ got her out of a secret government prison? How? Why?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, of course I didn’t,” Sherlock answers with a snort. “Admittedly, I knew of her; there aren’t that many people with genius-level intelligence in this country. But that’s all. I merely suggested to Mycroft that it would be a criminal waste to allow a mind like hers to rot away in prison when it could be put to much better use and my brother, the greedy git, agreed with me about _that_ at least. We both hate waste. So he pulled some strings…”

“A _lot_ of strings, actually,” Ianto corrects. "It couldn’t have been easy. She was in a high-security UNIT prison, and Mr Holmes has only so much influence when it comes to international anti-terrorist operations. He has a… a _consulting_ function,” he says, with a jaundiced sideways glance at Sherlock, “but he doesn’t make the actual decisions.”

Sherlock shrugs. “He still got her out, didn’t he?”

“Yet for that, he had to call in a lot of favours,” Ianto says seriously. “Favours he wasn’t able to call in later in other difficult situations. And ever since he got Toshiko out of that fetid hole, certain people have been watching him – and _her_ – with eagle eyes to see them make a mistake. She’s always been a liability for him; but she’s done excellent work, so the gain overweighed the risk.”

“She once mentioned that she was supposed to work for Mycroft for five years only but proved too useful to be let go, ever,” John murmurs and Ianto nods.

“Not because of Mr Holmes, though,” he says. “ _He_ would have honoured the five-year-agreement. It’s UNIT that would never let her go; even though her records have been wiped clean.”

“But some people remembered,” John realises, “and _that_ ’s how Magnussen got wind of it. _That_ what he had in hand against Mycroft.”

Ianto nods again. “When Magnussen began to send her subtle hints that he new about her past, Toshiko understood that sooner or later he would begin to blackmail her. It wasn’t _her_ past that worried her. She never denied that she was guilty, you see. But if a story about Mr Holmes making a deal with a traitor and a terrorist hit the papers – cos _that_ is how _CAM News_ would have sold it – that would have ended Mr Holmes’s career and destroyed everything he’d worked for in the last twenty-some years.”

“Which, as much as I hate to admit, wouldn’t be good for this country,” Sherlock adds.

“But more than that, Toshiko refused to live in fear,” Ianto says. “She wanted the matter settled, once and forever.”

“By murdering Magnussen with the only weapon that would without doubt reveal _her_ as the murderer?” Sherlock frowns. “That was stupid. As a rule, she isn’t stupid.”

“When we went to Appledore, we still believed there would be hard copies,” Ianto explains. “The plan was that she’d distract Magnussen by pleading to him _not_ to destroy her life, while I search the Vaults and remove the evidence. _Then_ we’d have planted the sonic weapon to conjure up a past connection between Magnussen and the Toclafane, which would have delivered _him_ into a UNIT prison for the rest of his life. Of course, when we realised that there were no such thing as the Appledore Vaults, she had to improvise; and she chose to remove the threat to Mr Holmes. Permanently.”

“I can’t blame her,” Sherlock grimaces. “Staying in Mycroft’s debt for life is just a different sort of prison.”

John gives him a weary glare. “Sherlock… just shut up, would you?”

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock does just that, and John turns back to Ianto. “So, what can we do now?”

“There’s nothing to do,” the young Welshman answers regretfully. “The murder Mr Holmes might have been able to sweep under the carpet; but the fact that she was able to rebuild the same weapon from memory only would raise all sorts of alarms with MI5, MI6, UNIT and a dozen other organisations connected with the Home Office. Besides, she refused to run away. You both heard her.”

“I’m never going to see her again, am I?” John murmurs in defeat. 

Ianto hesitates for a moment, but then he chooses to be honest with the doctor. “Most likely not, I’m sorry. The most you can hope for is to be allowed to raise your child.”

“ _Will I_?” John asks quietly and Sherlock’s expression becomes feral.

“Oh, I’ll make sure that you will, John, don’t worry. Even if I have to tie Mycroft to a chair and force-feed him with double chocolate cake until he bursts. This is all his fault anyway.”

“Hardly,” Ianto says dryly; then he rises. “Well; I have to go now. There’s a great deal of clean-up to do, and every single one of us will be needed. Me especially, as I’ll have to go through Mr Magnussen’s library, at the odd chance that there are still sensitive documents hidden among the books.”

“Mycroft’s minions can do that,” Sherlock says, sounding bored. 

Ianto tilts his head to the side and gives him a blank smile that, nonetheless, is vaguely unsettling. 

“Certainly. And I am the minion best suited for that particular task. I was trained to become head archivist of the Torchwood Institute, remember? If there’s anything, _I will_ find it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
With that, he leaves them alone and Sherlock, fairly out of his depth, makes awkward attempts to be helpful.

“Your room hasn’t been changed much, John; well, save for the case files I store on your bed,” he offers. “I can temporarily move them back to my bedroom if you want to sleep in your old bed tonight.”

John _almost_ smiles at that because the offer is so much _Sherlock_ that it is comforting in itself. 

“I don’t think I could sleep tonight at all,” he says. “And should I nick off after all, the sofa will do nicely enough. It won’t be the first time.”

“Yes, and it’s killing your bad shoulder every time,” Sherlock retorts. "You’re being unreasonable, John.”

“Perhaps,” John allows. “Let’s compromise, then. We can watch crap telly. I need the distraction, and you can snip at the idiocy of it, like in old times.”

Neither of them sleeps that night. The telly keeps running without actually being paid attention to. John is still too numb with shock, and after a while Sherlock retreats into his Mind Palace to analyse the recent events and the mistakes they all made, for future reflection.

Around 9 pm Mrs Hudson appears with Sherlock’s breakfast. She notices the tension and sadness in the atmosphere at once and leaves the tea and toast on the coffee table of the living room without a comment. John drinks the tea and munches on a piece of dry toast, going through the motions like an automaton, just because it gives him _something_ to do. Sherlock ignores the whole scene. Then they fell quiet again, while the telly keeps running in the background, tone now muted.

A little after 10 pm Ianto arrives at Baker Street. He doesn’t look any different than he always does, not really; and yet there’s something in his manner that gets Sherlock out of his Mind Palace at once.

“What happened?” the detective asks sharply.

“There was an accident,” Ianto replies, avoiding to meet their eyes. “The car that took Toshiko back to prison somehow got out of control and slammed into a concrete wall at full speed. The driver died on the spot. The two agents accompanying her are in hospital with multiple skull and rib fractures… it doesn’t look good.”

“What about her?” John asks in the insane hope that she might have somehow got away, although Ianto’s expression suggest something else as he is staring down at his highly polished dress shoes.

“She made it to the A & E… barely,” the young Welshman says. “I’m sorry, Dr Watson. Even if they could have saved her, she’d have been paralysed from the neck down.”

“The baby?” John asks tonelessly. Ianto just shakes his head.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Later, John has no memories about the rest of the day. As a doctor, he knows how shock can cause memory loss; he still finds it odd how he’s lost half a day so completely.

His memories set of again in the next morning, when he finds himself sitting in the living room, still wearing the same clothes he put on before they’d break into Magnussen’s house, staring at a paper cover with an unlabelled DVD in it that lies in front of him on the coffee table.

“What is this?” he asks, his voice harsh and foreign in his own ears.

“Something Jeeves left here for you,” the familiar baritone answers and, looking up, he sees Sherlock saunter into the room, wearing his old, blue dressing gown and pyjama bottoms and nothing on his feet. “He said Toshiko gave it him to deliver to you, should anything happen to her,” he looks at John expectantly, then he asks. “Well, aren’t you going to watch it?”

John doesn’t answer. He doesn’t _know_ what to answer. He doesn’t know if he has the strength to watch the pre-recorded message of his dead wife… ‘cause what else could it be? He doesn’t know if he’ll _ever_ have the strength.

“You can use my laptop,” Sherlock offers awkwardly. “I’ll leave you alone to watch it, if that’s what you want.”

“No,” John finally says, and it’s shockingly hard to speak at all. “No, I don’t want to watch it alone. Besides, if I did, the curiosity would kill you.”

“You want us to watch it together?” Sherlock clarifies because that thing with human emotions is still _terra incognita_ for him.

John gives him a tired smile. Well… the pale echo of a smile, saddled heavily with sorrow, but still something akin a smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “Bring the bloody laptop. Perhaps it’s better to have a friend with me while I’m doing this.”

Sherlock jumps at the choice to finally be able to _do_ something that _might_ be helpful, and less than five minutes later they are staring at the laptop screen. John has the CD already slid into the slot, and now Sherlock is waiting for him to hit Play.

As soon as he is, a window pops up, showing Toshiko, wearing glasses and a white lab coat. She takes off the glasses and faces the camera.

“John,” she says, and her voice is so achingly _there_ that John could feel a suspicious prickling in his ears. “If you're seeing this, I guess it means, I'm.... well, dead. Hope it was impressive! Not crossing the road or an incident with a toaster. I just wanted to say... it's OK. It really is. You saved me. You showed me that there are still possibilities in this world; that there’s still joy and love and happiness. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Thank you. I love you. Always will, no matter what happens. And... I hope I did good… and that you won’t forget me.”

The message ends and Sherlock stops the DVD at the last picture to conserve Toshiko’s shy, beautiful smile, meant for John alone. But John can’t even see through the blur of his unshed tears. She was the best thing that’s happened to him since Sherlock’s fake suicide, and now she is gone, too. 

The fact that at least Sherlock is back doesn’t lessen the impact of her loss; and that of their unborn child.

“Dammit,” he breathes heavily, trying to force the tears back… and failing spectacularly. “Why must you all leave me behind?”

But Sherlock, watching him helplessly break down under the burden of his grief, has no answer to that question. For the first time of his life, the world’s only consulting detective has no answers at all.

~The End – for now~

Will be continued in “Outtakes 04 – Secrets of the Soul”.


End file.
